When Depression Wore My Face

There was a morning when I looked in the mirror and felt like I was staring at a stranger.

The eyes were mine, but they looked tired.

The smile was mine, but it felt borrowed.

The face was mine, yet somehow… it wasn’t.

It was the day I realized depression had learned how to look like me.

It had slipped into my expressions, my routines, my silence.

And the scariest part wasn’t how it felt inside—it was how well it hid behind my everyday smile.

I didn’t know how long it had been there.

Weeks?

Months?

Maybe longer.

But I knew one thing for sure:

I wasn’t myself anymore.

When the Mask Became Too Heavy

Life didn’t stop when depression arrived.

The world didn’t pause out of respect.

People didn’t whisper, “Are you okay?” when I walked by.

I was still expected to work, to smile, to meet deadlines, to be “fine.”

So I pretended.

At home, I told myself I was just tired.

At work, I laughed with everyone else.

With friends, I convinced them I was “busy,” when really, I just didn’t know how to be around anyone.

Depression has a strange way of making you feel alone even in a crowded room.

It teaches you how to hide in plain sight.

How to show up physically while disappearing emotionally.

It made me forget the things I used to love.

Music became noise.

Messages became burdens.

The world, once colorful, slowly turned gray.

And the worst part?

It felt like it was all my fault.

As if I had chosen this heaviness.

As if I had welcomed it in.

But depression doesn’t knock.

It slips into your life quietly and slowly, until one day—it wears your face better than you do.

The Quiet Battle No One Saw

There were days when I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to gather enough strength just to stand up.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing loud.

Just the quiet weight of existing.

I tried to explain it once to someone close to me.

They said, “But you look fine.”

And that’s the thing.

Depression looked fine.

It looked like me.

It learned my voice, my walk, my habits.

It used my body to hide inside.

But there was a small part of me—deep, quiet, but stubborn—that refused to give up.

Maybe it was hope.

Maybe it was survival.

Maybe it was sheer exhaustion from pretending.

Whatever it was, it pushed me to do the bravest thing I’ve ever done:

I reached out.

Not with a dramatic speech or a carefully planned confession.

Just a simple, fragile sentence:

“I think something is wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Those words didn’t solve everything.

But they cracked the door open.

And sometimes, that’s all you need—the tiniest crack that lets the light in.

Learning to Reclaim My Own Face

Healing didn’t come quickly.

It wasn’t a sudden sunrise.

It was slow.

Some days felt better.

Some felt worse.

Some felt like I was climbing a mountain with empty hands.

But then there were small victories:

The morning I made my bed.

The day I went for a walk.

The text I finally answered.

The moment I laughed without forcing it.

The night I slept peacefully for the first time in months.

I started to recognize myself again—not all at once, but in pieces.

A smile here.

A little courage there.

A tiny spark of joy somewhere unexpected.

It wasn’t about “fixing” myself.

It was about understanding myself with more compassion than I ever had before.

I learned that depression doesn’t make you weak.

It doesn’t make you broken.

It doesn’t erase who you are.

It simply covers you—sometimes so completely that you forget there’s something underneath.

But the real you is never gone.

Just waiting.

And slowly, gently, patiently… I came back.

The Lesson I Carry Forward

Today, when I look into the mirror, I see my own face again.

Not perfect.

Not flawless.

Not always joyful.

But mine.

And when the heaviness tries to return—and it still does sometimes—I remind myself of something I learned during the darkest days:

Depression may borrow your face, but it can never steal your identity.

You are still you, even when you feel lost.

You are allowed to ask for help.

You are allowed to rest.

You are allowed to feel everything without apology.

You are allowed to come back to yourself slowly.

And you are allowed to believe that your story isn’t over.

Because it isn’t.

And it never was.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi